a woman assigned to me
by redrocketracer
Summary: Craig is assigned a therapist in 5th grade. He sees her every other Thursday until he is in his Sophmore year of high school. On the eve of his birthday, his sessions are cut to once a month and he is told to start attending a support group. There, he bumps into a familiar face. An unlikely friendship forms. {Now revised and being beta'd by TalkJerseyToMe}
1. Chapter 1

**Story now beta'd by TalkJerseyToMe**

**A/N**: Short chaptered story. Only so I can update more frequently. As I said previously...other story is on hold for now. I'm only posting this here. When it is done it will be posted to ao3 as a long one shot. This story is a lot more innocent in nature. Enjoy.

**Summary**: Craig is assigned a therapist in 5th grade. He sees her every other Thursday until he is in his Sophmore year of highschool. On the eve of his birthday, his sessions are cut to once a month and he is told to start attending a support group. There, he bumps into a familiar face. An unlikely friendship forms.

* * *

_There's a man assigned to me,_  
_And he checks on my stability,_  
_We discuss you every week,_  
_Then I rinse and rinse, repeat_

* * *

5th grade was the year that Craig had flipped off too many people; had landed himself in detention one too many times. He had become the epitome of a 'troubled child' in South Park. So finally, after being sent to Mr. Mackey's office for the upteenth time that year, his parents were contacted. That wasn't unusual. Mr. Mackey let out a sigh upon his entrance to the office, which was not unusual, either. What was unusual, however, was the sizeable file on his desk. It was also unusual that Craig's father was holding his mother, stroking down her blond hair. She seemed to be in tears, and Craig felt a bit of anxiety bubble in his stomach at the sight.

"Craig, sit down please, m'kay." Mr. Mackey instructed as he motioned to the empty seat next to the ones Craig's parents were huddled in. Craig complied, and his half lidded eyes fell on the older male. Mr. Mackey flipped open the file, seemed to dig around for something specific, and Craig watched him quietly.

"Did I do something wrong?" he inquired. He knew he usually got called in because, admittedly, he did seem to piss people off. Though, in that incident, he had just been randomly called out of class.

Maybe he was finally getting in trouble for what he did the week prior. It was a distant blur in his mind; something about homework and only filling in half of the answers, resulting in a raised middle finger, denial of said raising of the offending digit, and a heavy sigh from his fifth grade teacher.

"Not exactly, m'kay." the older man replied tentatively as if he was trying to pick out the correct words. Craig's mother let out a sniffle, and his father kept an unreadable expression on his face. Craig let his eyes flick to the corner and scan them over before allowing his gaze to rest on Mr. Mackey's tensed form.

"Then why am I here?" he questioned dryly. Mr. Mackey looked to his parents and then back at him.

"Well, it's been decided that you should seek some help outside of my office." he started, eyebrows raised ever so slightly. Craig's expression remained stoic, and he waited for him to continue, unsure of where exactly Mr. Mackey was going with that statement.

"Do you know what he's saying, Craig?" Laura, his mother asked, voice equally as nasal as Craig's. She knew her son far too well, and, as she looked at him, she was already sure of the answer.

"No." he stated blatantly, tone apathetic and level. Mrs. Tucker kept her mouth closed, having previously decided to let the school psychiatrist bring the news to her son. Her husband kept his thoughts reserved as well, remaining silent the entire time. Craig was definitely his offspring, even if they didn't have similar features.

"It's been decided that you should start seeing a therapist," Mr. Mackey rephrased gently. Craig raised his chin, and his lips parted slightly as he looked to his parents, eyes glued to them. His exhaustion was evident in his abyssal, obsidian, and after a moment, his tired gaze fell back on Mr. Mackey.

"Why?" he inquired.

The adults looked to him, and Mr. Mackey stood, making his way over to the display of pamphlets. The elder male hummed an off-key tune as he navigated through the various headings. Finally, he pulled out a packet that was bright in color and lifted it to Craig and his parents before he took a seat. Craig's eyes roamed the title, registering that it was something about troubled youth. Mr. Mackey went into a repetitive explanation about how the staff was worried about his behavior; his apathy, his stone-cold demeanor. Craig listened with his default, blank expression while Laura and Thomas Tucker sat quietly and watched their son take in the information.

As Mr. Mackey's explanation came to a close, he slid the brochure over to Craig, who merely glanced down at it and then back up at Mr. Mackey.

"Is this okay with you, Craig?" he asked, though it was obvious that the youth would not have much of a say in the manner. Craig simply blinked, mouth a straight line.

"Whatever." he said flatly.

Mr. Mackey smiled in satisfaction at Craig and his parents, quickly dismissing them, and shaking the older Tuckers' hands. Craig was sent back to class, and he quietly slipped the door open, returning to his seat.

There wasn't a big outburst of 'ooh's, 'Craig got in trouble,' or questioning. No one even spared him a glance. It was just normal; everything seemed to be completely normal to everyone.

He wondered if he should have put up a fight. Would it have been futile? Somehow, he thought it would have been.

Whatever the case, when he got home his mother sat him down and told him his first appointment would be next Thursday and every other Thursday that passed. Apparently, the decision to put Craig into therapy was one that his parents had been mulling over for quite some time. He repeated the name of the women assigned to him in his mind over and over again: Mrs. Fran. He pondered what she would be like. He would probably dislike her. He seemed to dislike most everyone.

He trudged up to his room after Terrance and Phillip was cut off and dinner had been eaten. Craig closed the door behind him, took the few steps to his bed, and drew back the comforter on it. He crawled in stiffly, a weird tightness in his chest. He had been feeling it all day, the knot threatening to smother him. It was like he couldn't get enough air to sate his lungs, and he had to take gasping breaths to ease whatever it was. Though, he pushed it down without further question.

Craig did not get any sleep that night.

Instead, his gaze remained steady on the ceiling of his room where he made patterns out of the cracks littering it. Inside of him, a quiet storm brewed.

On the outside, he kept up the facade of being calm and collected, and no one could tell the difference. It was honestly a feeling that had lost its novelty; not foreign or new to him at all. However, it seldom occured.


	2. Chapter 2

**Story is now beta'd by TalkJerseyToMe**

**A/N:** thanks for interest in this story. I highly appreciate it. For the record while this will end with a romantic relationship between Kenny and Craig, it is not the only main focus for the story. I want to say this: I do not promote love being a cure all. OK? and that's not what will take place in this story. This story is very near and dear to my heart. Anyways, I tried my hardest to depict the emotions the best I could while trying to keep it in character. If it seems inaccurate to anyone, I'm sorry. Also, when I said updates will be short but frequent, I meant it. For this part of story the chapters will be short. However they'll probably progressively get longer.

* * *

Thursday seemed to roll around quicker than usual, and Craig woke up earlier than he usually would on a school day; sometime before the sun had a chance to rise. His dark, unseeing eyes were fixated to the same stain on his wall, his mind somewhere else. He kept skipping from thought to thought, mind overwhelmed and jumbled with random bouts of thought. I'm don't need help. I don't want help. I don't need it. I... He reiterated the thoughts over and over in his mind like a mantra, head swimming. His body shivered from the familiar feeling of being cold, but beads of sweat continued to slip down his forehead, heartbeat bouncing between his temples. Frustrated and exhausted, Craig turned over and curled into himself.

"Ruby, Craig, time to get up." came the voice of their father about thirty minutes later. Craig blinked and slowly sat up, limbs rigid and shaky. His gaze remained firmly on his hands, which he couldn't, for the life of him, get to cease in their quivering. After struggling to inhale deeply through his nose, he pushed the covers off of his body, stood, and got dressed in the dark.

When he finished, he shoved his trembling hands in his coat pockets; the coat he always put on over his clothes immediately after he got dressed for the day. Without any words to his mother, father, or Ruby, he pulled out a box of cereal, shaking hands rattling the contents of the box. He tensed, taking a deep breath to stop the tremors. Eventually, he decided on a pop tart, too tired to put forth the effort for cereal. Craig put the bright box of cereal back and reached for the store-brand pop tarts, called 'Pop em's!'.

His father and mother didn't pay much attention to his distress, though, as usual. They were too wrapped up in everything else and were left to bicker quietly in the kitchen. Laura Tucker washed the dishes as she silently berated Thomas for something. Thomas wasn't much of an arguer, but his wife brought out the best and the worst in him, and judging by his indignant expression, she had brought out the worst in him that morning.

Craig and Ruby sat at the table, routine silence weighing between them. The only sound to be heard was Ruby's clanking of her metal spoon against the glass surface of her bowl. They didn't really talk too much. Sometimes Craig would engage her in one of his projects when he would try to film something. However, outside of that, they seldom spent time together. She thought he was a loser with his spaceman Craig getup and hours spent watching cartoons by himself or with...Butters.

When they had both finished, they waited patiently for their mother to say 'I'm ready' and start their feat to school. Eventually, she did come into the room, and she looked so, so exhausted.

"Come on." she said dryly. It gave Craig a sick feeling inside, but he swallowed the sickness down in lieu of trying to deal with it before school.

The drive to school was soundless and short lived. Craig would've take the bus, but for some reason his mother insisted on taking them to school that day instead. The radio continued to sing a tune that had long since outlived its fame, and Craig watched the houses in his neighborhood pass. The ground was covered in a thick veil of snow that Craig was so very used to at that point. When he arrived at his school, he yanked on the latch of the door and heaved the minivan's door open. As his shabby, black boots made contact with the wet ground, he trudged through the sickening sea of white to his class.

For the remainder of the day, he tried to gulp down the feeling of choking. He watched his fifth grade teacher write on the board, but nothing she wrote registered in his foggy mind. His hands were still quivering, and he felt as if he was boiling alive, palms sticky with sweat. Though he was rigid and drowning in his own mind, he kept his breathing even and calm, dismissing any concern anyone might've had. He couldn't understand how his distress fell under the radar, though, because he felt so, so, sick.

When the bell rang to dismiss them to lunch, he pocketed his clenched fists and took a seat at his usual lunch table, though hs refused to eat that day because he felt like it would just come back up. His obsidian orbs fell blankly on Clyde's lunch, though he really didn't want to think about food when his stomach was churning so aggressively.

"Woah, Craig. You ok, man?" Clyde inquired, brow furrowed in concern. Half lidded eyes flicked up to the lively brunette, Craig's 'best' friend. Craig was actually confused at first, but then he noticed he was chewing on the knuckles of his tightened fist. He took the shivering hand away from his mouth and lowered it back under the table, holding it between his knees.

"Fine." he murmured, voice of emotion. Clyde looked him over but quickly shrugged.

"'Kay." he said simply before he went back into a rant about something or another that probably didn't matter to anyone else.

The day finished without further incident. His composure was upheld and by the time the last class of the day came by, Craig's pulse was radiating throughout his skull. He had made it, though, and that was all that really mattered at that point. When the bell rang, he waited a few minutes in his seat. He felt as if he was under water; everything sounded far away, and had to recollect himself before he could force his legs to move. Eventually, he mustered the strength to get up and drag himself to his cubby to gather his stuff.

He trudged through the halls of his elementary school, trying to keep his steps soundless as not to attract any unnecessary attention to himself. He had to wait to be picked up, as his mother had previously informed him, and when she arrived, she signed him out and lead him towards the car.

"Where are we going?" he asked, voice nasal as he buckled himself up and tossed his backpack onto the backseat. Of course, he knew he was going to see Mrs. Fran; he'd dreaded that day the entire week, but he'd failed to ask where her office was before then.

"North Park." his mother answered as she pulled out of her parking spot. She turned the radio up a little louder, and the sound of some classical music station flooded the car. Craig shifted in his seat, tugging at the hem of his jacket.

"Ok." he replied flatly over the music. North Park was about a twenty minute drive so he again stared out the window as the trees, skies, and other cars blurred together In his vision. His mother kept her eyes on the road the entire time, and an all too familiar silence ensued.

They eventually came to a long driveway. On either side there were looming trees and foliage, and it was quite intimidating to say the least. At the end of it, though, was an exceptionally small building, almost looking like someone's home. Craig slipped out of the car and stood in front of it, hands stuffed in his pockets as he took in the sight.

When he noticed his mother heading toward the entrance, his legs began moving after her without him really having to think about it. He followed her to the glass door and let it close behind them, swallowing hard. The waiting room was empty aside from a young women cradling a baby in her arms, and she hushed the fussy bundle. Craig took a seat in one of the chairs by the exit.

He still felt like someone was relentlessly squeezing their fingers around his heart, chest tight. As his mother took a seat beside him and meticulously filled out the paperwork, Craig gazed at the paintings on the wall. His eyes roamed the soothing hues of the watercolor, but even that didn't help the unwavering tension in his chest. He took a gulp of air and folded his arms over his chest, shoving his hands under his armpits.

Eventually, after what felt like a lifetime, his papers were handed in. A good few minutes afterwards, someone called him back, and he assumed that this was the almighty Fran.

His feet hit the ground, and he slowly made his way to the opening to the back of the building. He looked over his shoulder at his mother briefly, though he wasn't sure what kind of reassurance he expected from her. She had an unreadable expression on her countenance, and he let out a sigh, walking through the entrance to what he assumed to be Mrs. Fran's lair.

He came to encounter an older woman, her hair is as white as the snow blanketing the ground, her skin leathery with wrinkles, slightly tanned skin, and a hook nose. Craig stared up at her, shoulders raised ever so slightly.

"You must be Craig." the older women said, but Craig was quiet, lips pursed into a thin line. The woman looked like she was kind, but that she didn't tolerate nonsense. She smiled down at him, creating more wrinkles on her aged face ,and lead him back to her office. The room was cozy; her wooden desk was a deep shade of brown brown and the walls a soothing green. The seat provided for her patients was an ugly, yellow thing, though. Craig took his rest there, sitting on his hands as he watched her take her own seat across from him.

When they were both seated, she again smiled at him.

"I'm Mrs. Fran. I'll be your therapist from now on." she introduced, tone soft and oddly friendly. It actually made Craig feel a little more at ease. However, his eyes flicked down to the file on her desk, narrowed a bit.

"I don't want to talk about my feelings." he said, blatant and curt. He didn't. He didn't know how to convey anything. He expected her to be upset, but she merely let out a chuckle.

"This is your session, Craig," she started, quickly scribbling down something in his file.

"We talk about what you want to. When you're comfortable you can talk about your feelings. For now," she reclined back in her seat a bit and pulled open the drawer in her desk. Craig watched as she fished around with a blank expression until she finally slapped down a deck of cards on the table.

"Do you know how to play 'I Declare War?'" she inquired. Craig looked down at the cards, then back up to Fran. Somehow, he thought that his parents would be pissed if they found out their insurance was paying for him to play cards with an old woman, but he remembered the one time he got Cartman to plot revenge on them. He felt like this was similar so he nodded.

"Yeah." he started, reaching his hand to cover the deck and realizing they were not shaking nearly as bad as they were before.

"I do." he completes and she smiled, they split the deck in half.

Their first session was spent playing 'I Declare War,' and Fran managed to slip a bit of information out of Craig, Asking simple questions like "what is your favorite TV show?" or "do you have any best friends?"

He always replied simply. Their sessions were like that for the remainder of his 5th grade year except sometimes they would have small debates on topics she would bring forth, and Craig gained a bit of respect and comfort towards her. He didn't end up feeling like he was going to throw up whenever he visited her.

However, the strange feeling inside of him still didn't seem to relent; not even for Mrs. Fran.


End file.
